Therefore, as Terence has so well expressed what he borrowed from philosophy, shall not we, from whose fountains he drew it, say the same thing in a better manner, and abide by it with more steadiness?
Hence came that steady countenance, which, according to Xantippe, her husband Socrates always had; so that she said that she never observed any difference in his looks when he went out and when he came home. Yet the look of that old Roman, M. Crassus, who, as Lucilius says, never smiled but once in his lifetime, was not of this kind, but placid and serene, for so we are told. He, indeed, might well have had the same look at all times who never changed his mind, from which the countenance derives its expression.
So that I am ready to borrow of the Cyrenaics those arms against the accidents and events of life by means of which, by long premeditation, they break the force of all approaching evils; and at the same time I think that those very evils themselves arise more from opinion than nature, for if they were real, no forecast could make them lighter.
But I shall speak more particularly on these matters after I have first considered Epicurus’s opinion, who thinks that all people must necessarily be uneasy who believe themselves to be in any evils, let them be either foreseen and expected, or habitual to them; for with him evils are not the less by reason of their continuance, nor the lighter for having been foreseen; and it is folly to ruminate on evils to come, or such as, perhaps, never may come: every evil is disagreeable enough when it does come; but he who is constantly considering that some evil may befall him is loading himself with a perpetual evil; and even should such evil never light on him, he voluntarily takes upon himself unnecessary misery, so that he is under constant uneasiness, whether he actually suffers any evil, or only thinks of it.
But he makes the alleviation of grief depend on two things—a ceasing to think on evil, and a turning to the contemplation of pleasure. For he thinks that the mind may possibly be under the power of reason, and follow her directions: he forbids us, therefore, to mind trouble, and calls us off from sorrowful reflections; he throws a mist over our eyes to hinder us from the contemplation of misery.
Having sounded a retreat from this statement, he drives our thoughts on again, and encourages them to view and engage the whole mind in the various pleasures with which he thinks the life of a wise man abounds, either from reflecting on the past, or from the hope of what is to come.
I have said these things in my own way; the Epicureans have theirs. However, let us examine what they say; how they say it is of little consequence.
Hence came that steady countenance, which, according to Xantippe, her husband Socrates always had; so that she said that she never observed any difference in his looks when he went out and when he came home. Yet the look of that old Roman, M. Crassus, who, as Lucilius says, never smiled but once in his lifetime, was not of this kind, but placid and serene, for so we are told. He, indeed, might well have had the same look at all times who never changed his mind, from which the countenance derives its expression.
So that I am ready to borrow of the Cyrenaics those arms against the accidents and events of life by means of which, by long premeditation, they break the force of all approaching evils; and at the same time I think that those very evils themselves arise more from opinion than nature, for if they were real, no forecast could make them lighter.
But I shall speak more particularly on these matters after I have first considered Epicurus’s opinion, who thinks that all people must necessarily be uneasy who believe themselves to be in any evils, let them be either foreseen and expected, or habitual to them; for with him evils are not the less by reason of their continuance, nor the lighter for having been foreseen; and it is folly to ruminate on evils to come, or such as, perhaps, never may come: every evil is disagreeable enough when it does come; but he who is constantly considering that some evil may befall him is loading himself with a perpetual evil; and even should such evil never light on him, he voluntarily takes upon himself unnecessary misery, so that he is under constant uneasiness, whether he actually suffers any evil, or only thinks of it.
But he makes the alleviation of grief depend on two things—a ceasing to think on evil, and a turning to the contemplation of pleasure. For he thinks that the mind may possibly be under the power of reason, and follow her directions: he forbids us, therefore, to mind trouble, and calls us off from sorrowful reflections; he throws a mist over our eyes to hinder us from the contemplation of misery.
Having sounded a retreat from this statement, he drives our thoughts on again, and encourages them to view and engage the whole mind in the various pleasures with which he thinks the life of a wise man abounds, either from reflecting on the past, or from the hope of what is to come.
I have said these things in my own way; the Epicureans have theirs. However, let us examine what they say; how they say it is of little consequence.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.15
Though I am hardly qualified to expound on the subtle differences between the Cyrenaics and the Epicureans, I find it interesting how the former had far more trust than the latter in the power of the mind to manage the appearances of evil.
While hard experience has taught me that I can indeed prepare myself for the approach of what is bad, I am also familiar with the feeling that merely thinking about something harmful will bring me to misery. On my stronger days I face the hardship head-on, and on my weaker days I find myself seeking some sort of diversion to get the negativity out of my head.
Since both the Cyrenaics and the Epicureans placed human happiness in the presence of pleasure and the absence of pain, the problem of negative emotions was a greater obstacle for them than it was for the Stoics, Academics, or Peripatetics, for whom feelings were always to be in the service of the virtues.
If I believe that the passions are the be-all and end-all of my existence, I am going to have a much harder time coping with grief. I will have no higher standard, so to speak, to which I can appeal.
The Cyrenaics, at least, proposed taking the bull by the horns, and digging in our heels when we sense impending pain. In contrast, the Epicureans could only suggest sidestepping the matter by avoiding unpleasant impressions or by attempting to think “happy thoughts” instead of “unhappy thoughts”.
Yet hurtful sensations will inevitably come, and refusing to reflect upon harsh realities will not make them magically disappear. While I have a great respect for the Epicurean quest toward emotional balance, I’m afraid I have never had any long-term success at finding inner peace by hiding myself away. I am clueless without the capacity to understand the meaning of loss, and I must place it within the context of a greater purpose.
When I read about the constancy of character displayed by the great philosophers from history, or when I see those around me, however modest and unassuming, finding the strength of their convictions, I am reminded of how I have far more power over my thoughts and feelings that I might initially believe. Let me observe what moves them to such a joy in fortitude, so that I too can learn to stay the course.
These days, I tend to worry over my future with a reference back to the grief from my past. Must it continue? Will it eventually fade, or will it constantly linger? On any given day, my thoughts will regularly drift to the memory of someone I loved and lost, and so I must decide what to make of these rather unwelcome visitors.
Wishing them away, or getting caught up in a distraction, is too much like sweeping the dust under the carpet. No, I must practice the fine art of grappling with my demons, and of finding a way to transform the perceived evil into a genuine good.
Ignoring an inconvenient truth does not force it to disappear; quite the contrary, it is all the more likely to fester.
Though I am hardly qualified to expound on the subtle differences between the Cyrenaics and the Epicureans, I find it interesting how the former had far more trust than the latter in the power of the mind to manage the appearances of evil.
While hard experience has taught me that I can indeed prepare myself for the approach of what is bad, I am also familiar with the feeling that merely thinking about something harmful will bring me to misery. On my stronger days I face the hardship head-on, and on my weaker days I find myself seeking some sort of diversion to get the negativity out of my head.
Since both the Cyrenaics and the Epicureans placed human happiness in the presence of pleasure and the absence of pain, the problem of negative emotions was a greater obstacle for them than it was for the Stoics, Academics, or Peripatetics, for whom feelings were always to be in the service of the virtues.
If I believe that the passions are the be-all and end-all of my existence, I am going to have a much harder time coping with grief. I will have no higher standard, so to speak, to which I can appeal.
The Cyrenaics, at least, proposed taking the bull by the horns, and digging in our heels when we sense impending pain. In contrast, the Epicureans could only suggest sidestepping the matter by avoiding unpleasant impressions or by attempting to think “happy thoughts” instead of “unhappy thoughts”.
Yet hurtful sensations will inevitably come, and refusing to reflect upon harsh realities will not make them magically disappear. While I have a great respect for the Epicurean quest toward emotional balance, I’m afraid I have never had any long-term success at finding inner peace by hiding myself away. I am clueless without the capacity to understand the meaning of loss, and I must place it within the context of a greater purpose.
When I read about the constancy of character displayed by the great philosophers from history, or when I see those around me, however modest and unassuming, finding the strength of their convictions, I am reminded of how I have far more power over my thoughts and feelings that I might initially believe. Let me observe what moves them to such a joy in fortitude, so that I too can learn to stay the course.
These days, I tend to worry over my future with a reference back to the grief from my past. Must it continue? Will it eventually fade, or will it constantly linger? On any given day, my thoughts will regularly drift to the memory of someone I loved and lost, and so I must decide what to make of these rather unwelcome visitors.
Wishing them away, or getting caught up in a distraction, is too much like sweeping the dust under the carpet. No, I must practice the fine art of grappling with my demons, and of finding a way to transform the perceived evil into a genuine good.
Ignoring an inconvenient truth does not force it to disappear; quite the contrary, it is all the more likely to fester.
—Reflection written in 10/1996
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